Wolf of Winter
by Lufthexe
Summary: When her Lord Husband is called away to defend the Wall, Sansa is left alone at Winterfell, and must endure the winter and protect her home from those that would think to take it. Sandor/Sansa


When Sansa awoke in the night, her heart thudding at her chest and a three-eyed raven still looming in her mind's eye, it was with a deep sense of foreboding that she left the warmth of her bed, pulling her dressing gown around her shoulder to ward off the chill that came even in the late summer months. Sansa knew she should enjoy it, as it could not last forever; eventually the winter would come, and even the warmest furs would not keep the cold at bay. She leaned against the stone of the windowsill, watching the grey shadows before dawn, the dark figures that moved about in the darkness. Fog had rolled in to cover the fields, and it seemed to creep up the castle walls, reaching for her with its icy tentacles.

And then warm palms encircled her shoulders, pulling her back against a muscled chest as she twisted her head to glance up at a familiar face.  
"What troubles you, little bird?" Sandor rasped, sliding his palm along the smooth surface of her skin where her dressing gown had fallen away.

"Only dreams," she responded, resting her head back against his bare chest. Unlike her, Sandor always seemed to exude heat, and could stand even the coolest summer mornings bare-chested.

"Aye, little bird, 'tis only dreams," Sandor rasped, looking down at the she-wolf nestled against him. While Sandor did not believe in any gods, he had long ago stopped discounting dreams, not when the Starks seemed to have warg in their blood.

Sansa leaned closer, as if sensing his thoughts. "Dawn wil break soon," she noted, the fog already burning off and the landscape becoming more and more visible.

"Aye, but not yet," Sandor grinned, grabbing Sansa around the waist and throwing her over his shoulder as she cried out in surprise, laughing as he strode quickly back to their bedchamber.

* * *

Winter came too quickly, as it always did. They had stored food and rationed everything, but Sansa worried as always. The winter promised not to be too long, but it was impossible to say; a short winter could still be three or four long years, and when the townsfolk ran out of stores and came to Winterfell seeking refuge, it would be hard to make everything last. Sandor would catch her staring out the window off in the direction of the godswood, worrying the hem of her sleeve as her face drew in concern. While Sandor knew the dangers winter brought, it was not ingrained in him as it had been with the Stark children; he was not raised with the fear of the cold and the creatures beyond the wall.

* * *

Sandor did his best to distract her. While he had many duties as Lord of Winterfell (and oh, how the gods must have lauged when they had see fit to spite him with that title), Sansa was the true Lady of the North, commanding the love and devotion of all the townsfolk; leaving him mostly to head the growing forces and train men.

The heavy snows had covered the ground already, making it hard to walk the grounds or visit the godswood, as Sansa was used to. It was as if Winterfell had become a new kind of cage, the depths of snow and howling winds keeping the doors closed and the fires stoked.

Sandor was not used to being trapped so, and Sansa had long ago grown weary of cages, not matter how comfortable.

It was Sandor, though, who broke first; wrapping himself in thick furs and wandering into the godswood, happy to simply be free of the stone walls, even if the faces of the tree gods were a bit unnerving. "Bugger the cold," he muttered irritably, kicking at a snow drift that clung stubbornly to his leather boots, the flakes stirring up and sticking to his cloak. The wind was biting, and for once Sand was thankful that he could only feel half of his face, for the wind cut deep enough for skin to burn and eyes to water.

He was about to turn in, cursing himself for the stupid idea of venturing out in the winter when he saw a flurry of motion deeper in the forest. Sandor looked closer, but could not see or hear anything, and passed it off as some lost stag or wolf that had wandered too close to the castle.

But as he trudged back through the snow, he caught a flicker of a cloak darting behind a tree, and he knew it was no stag that stalked him.

No, it was a direwolf.

He knew Winterfell was well-fortified, but he had been a soldier for too long to ignore his instinct to draw his dagger from its scabbard in his boot. He treaded more lightly now, drawing closer to the tree that he had seen the cloaked figure dart behind.

But it was behind him now, and despite his old injuries, he was still quick enough to swing around and grab the figure by the arm, pulling it down to the snow with him as he drove his dagger into the soft ground far out of reach of the person.

For it is not any danger that stalked him, but a little bird. She was breathless, trapped beneath him, her hood drawn back so her flaming hair bled onto the snow. She looked so bloody perfect, like the fucking Maiden herself, and Sandor was immediately contrite that he had thought to draw his dagger on her. Not for the first time, his traitorous brain whispered, and it was all he could do to block it out, instead focusing on the Lady of Winterfell that lay beneath him.

And she smiled at him so brilliantly, he was lost.

"Seven hells girl," he muttered darkly, burying his face in the soft crook of her neck. She laughed, wrapping her arms around him as he lost himself to the scent of her, sweet and enticing and enough that he is fucking hard even though it's bloody cold as the Wall outside. But the gaze Sansa meets him with is enough to send a wave of heat through him, and he could not suppress the low growl that escaped his throat.

She met his gaze tauntingly, her touch bold as she grasped him where he was already thick and wanting, coaxing another rough, shuttered moan out of him before he responded in kind, covering them both with his thick cloak as he touched and tasted and pleased until he was sure the old gods and the new would surely hear them.

* * *

It was deep in winter when Sandor is called away, receiving a raven from Jon to help protect the Wall and the North from the Others that encroached and grew in strength every day.

Sansa was loathe to let him leave, but she would not withhold him from his duties to the realm. While he prepared his men and instructed the servants of the keep in his absence, she could not help but fear that he would not reutnr, in the same way her father never returned. it was the North that ran in Lord Eddard Stark's blood, and venturing too far south had been his demise. Sandor had southron blood in him, and perhaps the Wall would be too far North; perhaps it would spell his death as well. But Sansa could not voice these fears, as Sandor was duty bound to go, just as she was equally sworn to support him.

But that did not quell her worry, and when she took him to their bed, it was almost with a desperation that she touched him, needing to savor and remember the feel of him before he left.

Sandor saw his little bird fret and worry, but knew not how to assuage her fears. He had a lifetime of experience killing men, but Others were different, and the prospect of being forced to fight with fire was not an appealing one to him.

He tried to steal moments away with her, to simply sit with her curled in his lap, he stroking her hair softly and she hummed hymns to the Mother. But all too quickly he was donning his armor for the trek North, Stranger laden with his weapons and supplies for the journey.

While he was not one for flowery words or declarations of love, he pinned her against the wall of an unoccupied hall all the same, kissing her desperately as she clung to him, the cold metal of his armor cutting through her woolen dress, but it is a welcome discomfort. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as his gloved hands tightened around her waist. "Do not forget this old dog while he is away, little bird," he rasped, his lips at her neck as he tried to pull him closer still.

"Perhaps you shall find someone else to warm your bed at the Wall," she teased, grinning up at him to find his gaze dark upon her, but not without mirth.

"I will be lucky if I can keep my balls from freezing off, girl, much less a whore to warm my bed," he chuckled, nipping at her earlobe. "And I better not return to find one of your true and fair knights winning your favor," his gaze turned dark, possessive. "Or warming your bed." His gaze pinned her, and she ran her palm over the burned side of his face, holding his gaze.

"Do not doubt my love for you, Sandor. I want no Lord or Ser."

He meant to protest, but she pressed her lips firmly to his, her teeth nipping at his bottom lip, and Sandor forgot what he was about to say.

She saw the men off at the gates of Winterfell, bidding them a safe journey and victory over the Others. Once they were far enough away, Sansa climbed to the battlements to look out upon the men, her Lord husband by far the largest, easy to pick out upon Stranger, though no longer did the Hound helm rest upon his shoulders.

She stood there until she could no longer make out any figures on the horizon, and then longer still, until the winds finally bit too harshly for her to stay.

She knew logically that Sandor was the fiercest of all warriors, surely the best in all Westeros. If anyone was to survive the Wall and the Others unscathed, it would be him. and yet that did not quell the worry in her heart, the heaviness in her chest that would not abate.

* * *

It was months before Sansa heard word of them, and by then he had fallen ill; likely taken a chill from the deep cold, the Maester says. Sansa did not question this, for she knew that she had suffered too many sleepless nights wandering the walls of Winterfell; too many long hours spent outside the warmth of Winterfell's walls, keeping a steady vigil for her husband's return.

It is the third month when they finally hear word that Lord Clegane and his men have safely journeyed to the Wall, and have been a large force in driving away the Others, though they suspect it will be quite a few more months before they can return home. It is good news, all in all, but comforted Sansa little, who had only grown more ill with the passing days. Perhaps the gods were punishing her, she thought. If Sandor's safety is the price for her health, then she will gladly suffer.

But, by the gods, it was such suffering. Her body was wracked with chills, and she had no appetite, nor could she hold down the little that her maids tried to feed her. She had grown weaker, and she knew Sandor would not be pleased to see it, nor hear of it. She kept her condition out of the ravens she sent him, hoping that by the time he returned to Winterfell, she would be whole and hale, and he would be none the wiser. It was no use worrying him, not when he was spending his days facing demons both past and present, and had no means in which to visit her or heal her.

So Sansa endured, as she had always done.


End file.
